You Gotta Love Him, He's Your Dad!

My Dad is one of a kind. Seriously. I call him my Dad although I'm actually no relation to him. The man raised me from the time I was a couple of months old so I give him the title.

Dad recently retired from truck driving shortly after he had open heart surgery. He grew up on a farm in Selmer, Tennessee, which, for those of you that don't know, was the home of Buford T. Pusser of "Walking Tall" fame. Not much of student, he never learned to read until he had to pick up the want ads for a job. He busted his ass working two and three jobs to raise three kids, one of which wasn't his and I think he did a pretty damn good job.

I talked to Dad tonight, it being Father's Day and all. He asked me the normal questions a father asks their son. How is work. What's going on at the house. How is the love life. The last question lead to me giving him about a three month update on what has been going down at the mansion.

I told him about T.B. dumping me and then somehow getting me involved in the drama that is her life. I'm basically whining, but he ain't biting. He asked if I remembered Becky.

I rush of memories from the last day that I saw Becky flooded my brain. My Dad and Mom divorced while when I was about 20 and away at college. Dad went through a nut ball stage that many middle aged men go through I guess. He bought an RX-7, moved into a singles complex, and dated many, many women of questionable background. Finally he sold the RX-7, moved into a house in the suburbs and kind of settled down with Becky, a mousy divorcee' with a couple of grown kids.

When I graduated college and moved back to Memphis, I moved in with Dad. He had plenty of room to spare and didn't seem to mind. Becky was around quite a bit, but I swear I never heard her say more that two words in a 60 minute period. She always just seemed to be part of the background and for the most part, I never paid any attention to her.

One Saturday afternoon, I came home from whatever mischief I had been into and found Becky drunker than Cooter Brown following my Dad around the house, beer in one hand, smoke in the other, cussing his ass out like R. Lee Ermey in "Full Metal Jacket." The foulest crap was coming out of her mouth.

This was amusing at first, but then she began to escalate matters. I heard him across the house yelling "stop it Becky, I mean it." I wandered into the living room to find Becky doing her damnedest to kick my Dad in the heuvos. Dad was doing his best to dodge her foot, but I knew eventually she would connect and then Dad would get pissed and she would get her clock cleaned. The end result, my Dad would be on the next episode of "Cops" as the current redneck wife beater.

So, I called the cops. I'm on the phone with the Sheriffs department trying to explain that I don't want my dad to jail for getting kicked in the nuts and suddenly Becky comes running into the kitchen, grabs the phone and hangs it up. Of course they call right back and I tell them that they had better send somebody out with a quickness before this all ends up on the evening news.

A couple of deputies show up and I go outside to explain the situation to them. My Dad lived in the back of a cove, so of course this is all big time entertainment for the neighbors. So I'm giving Barney Fife and his partner the rundown on the nut kicking psycho that has taken over my Dad's house, when my Dad comes out. Dad is a pretty good sized fella, runs about 5'11", 230 lbs. John Q. Law looks him up and down, sees the shirtless, tobacco chewing, truck driving, redneck that he is and I can tell that they have their doubts. They ask him what he wants them to do. Dad tells them she's drunk, trying to kick him in the nuts, and he wants her out of his house.

So they hitch up their belts and prepare to do battle when this little mousy thing, all of 5'2", maybe 110 lbs. staggers out of the house, Pabst Blue Ribbon in the right paw, Pall Mall in the left. She makes her way up to face the cop that reminds me of Claude Akins' character in "B.J. and The Bear." Becky throws her shoulders back, looks him square in the face and announces "I'm not leaving and there isn't a mother fucker here big enough to make me."

Claude raises his eyebrows and looks and his partner before he replies "Ma'am, this is not your residence and if this man wants you to go, you have to leave."

Bless her heart. She was so full of liquid courage that she probably thought it was a good idea to slap a Shelby County Sheriff's Deputy. She launched Claude's trooper sunglasses into the next yard with one mighty swing and didn't even break her cigarette.

Claude's head snaps back and immediately returned to it's upright position in his best imitation of a Bozo the Clown punching bag. He pauses for a nano second and you can almost hear the last two synapses in his addled brain fire and decide on a plan of action.

He goes Rodney King on Becky, smacks the beer out of her hand, grabs her wrist and puts on the hammer lock, spins her around and slams her face down on the hood of his cruiser. Her melon bounced once or twice and by the time it came to a rest in the form fitted crater of the hood, the cuffs were on her wrists.

Dad tells the story much better than I do. No matter how hard I try, I can't imitate the good old boy drawl he spews out. "After the police 'cuffed her, she commenced a hollerin' and a kickin' and I tell you what, I bet them boys thought they had caught themselves a wild Comanche Injun."

Anyway, that's the last I saw of Becky. I moved out shortly after and I don't think Dad saw her anymore either.

Thanks Dad. Primarily for being Dad, but also for reminding me that no matter how bad you think your situation is, somebody has always had it worse.



"You can't sleep all day and get up at 4:00 in the evening and pretend you're in a hurry."

Al Green